


Speech!

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson receives an award, and Holmes is put out for all manner of reasons.  Subtle chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speech!

It was early one Wednesday morning when the envelope arrived. Mrs. Hudson brought it up the stairs, balanced on the breakfast tray, alongside the cups and saucers. Laborious, the climb was, too, for I heard her mutter not quite _sotto voce_ of her sore and clicking knees, and of how many times she made this upwards journey in a day.

I glanced across to Holmes, who was sprawled smoking in his easy chair.

“Holmes,” I said.

He paid me not the slightest mind. 

“Holmes,” I said again. 

Our landlady was by now at the top step, and pushing open the door of the sitting-room.

“You have a letter, Doctor,” she exhaled. She set down the tray upon the table, where the cups and saucers clattered, and the spoons raised up a jangle, and the sugar bowl nudged elbows with the coffee pot.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I replied. Then, once more: _“Holmes._ ”

I believe he had been dozing after all. The only man that I know who is capable of simultaneously smoking and sleeping. He awoke with a start. His slippers scuffed at the rug in an attempt to gain purchase. His head jerked around.

“OW.” (He had twisted his neck, apparently.) His voice became peevish. “What? Whatever now? Ow! Why? Things?”

“You're not making the slightest bit of sense,” I informed him. “Come over here and have breakfast.”

“That was it? Breakfast?” His tone raised a half-octave higher. “You hurt my neck. I'll be skew-whiff for days now.” He got up all the same, and stamped across to the table still rubbing his collar. He snatched the manila envelope. Observing at the last that it was not addressed to him, he huffed and tossed it hard and high over his shoulder. He sat down heavily. “Where are my letters?”

“There are none for you this morning, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson. The lady had the good sense to begin her slow retreat back out onto the landing.

“I must have at least one,” he whined. “Did you even look properly? Did you drop some? Is the postman still here? Can you ask him?”

“No, yes, no, no, and no,” replied poor Mrs. Hudson, sorely tried. The door clicked smartly in her wake. We were alone again together. I half wished that we were not.

Holmes stared at me. He appeared to have forgotten his cricked neck, for he had ceased his fretful rub.

“Watson,” said he, “what in the blue merry blazes does _'No, yes, no, no, and no'_ mean? Does it mean that I have letters?”

If he was optimistic of a reply then he received none, for I was on my hands and knees upon the carpet, seeking out my battered envelope. I retrieved it, and sat down opposite my friend. It was good that all my fingers were so occupied, for I felt the overwhelming urge to strangle him. I tore the flap, and removed the typed sheet from within. I read it, curiously at first, and then with burgeoning excitement.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Holmes!”

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, his face a scowl, “this is breakfast, whoop-de-doo.”

“No,” I said, “not that.” I waved my letter. “Holmes! It's this. It is wonderful news. I have won an award!”

My friend looked at the letter. He looked at me. He looked back to the letter.

“I have won an award,” I repeated, deflated. “You might be happy for me, Holmes.”

“How can I be happy, when I have not the faintest notion as to what it is you've won? Is it a medal for _Moustache of the Year_? An engraved silver cup for _The Doctor Least Likely to Attend to His Patients_?” He giggled childishly. “They might have a little trouble fitting all of that onto the cup.”

I mustered all the calm that I was able, which was barely half that of the frustration currently boiling at my tongue.

“It is for one of my short stories,” I said with dignity. “And this is a letter from my publisher. _The Strand_ magazine holds an annual awards, with the winners voted for by their subscribers, and I have won within my category.” I smiled now. “Isn't that marvellous?”

Holmes furled a heavy eyebrow. “A story with me in it?”

I furled one of my own straight back. “Yes?”

“Well, does that mean that I win something too?”

I slammed my hand upon the table. “No, Holmes, it does _not_ , for goodness sake.”

He flinched. His mouth became a moue. He affected his attention onto the coffee pot. He poured one cup quite pointedly. He tried to hide the sugar bowl. 

“Please stop sulking,” I said slowly. “Pass me the pot. Don't hide the sugar.” 

Following a mutual silence of some minutes, each second growing heavier and blacker, Holmes relented.

“Well done... on the... thing,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He nibbled around his buttered toast. I forked my ham and eggs.

“They want me to give an acceptance speech,” I said. “I had better start work on it after breakfast. There will be hundreds in attendance at the ceremony.”

Holmes said nothing, but his grey eyes shone bright. The faintest curl played at his lip. I attributed this to little more than gas or quiet placation, and paid no mind. My thoughts were now upon my speech, what I should say, and how so humble and indeed grateful I would appear while I was saying it.

After breakfast, I spent three hours and wrote close to a thousand words. I decided that might be enough. I had included some life history, a large amount of modesty, and hearty thanks to the voting public, my patient and loyal publisher, and _The Strand_. This masterpiece I then placed within my desk for its safekeeping. The ceremony was but two weeks away. I shivered with the pleasure of anticipation.

The fortnight passed slowly. Holmes commented no more upon the subject, although I noticed at odd intervals that he would glance towards my desk, and from my desk across to me, whereupon his face would alter to an expression inexplicable. In all other ways he quite behaved himself, indeed was fairly quieter than usual. Believe me, as a fellow who has lived with this pale lunatic for more years than he has sense, these peaceful interludes are bliss.

The day of the ceremony, then. Set to commence at two o'clock, I was ready by midday. As my “plus one”, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was looking dapper in his pinstripe suit. He fussed around his buttonhole. He fumbled in his pocket. He eyed me sideways until my nerves reached fever pitch.

“Holmes,” I said, “why are you jittering? Are you unwell?”

“This green carnation tickles,” he complained. “My collar scratches. My shoes are tight.”

“Do you wish to change?”

He shook his head.

“Then let's be off,” I said, excited once again now, “so we might catch ourselves a table at the front.”

My speech was tucked secure inside my wallet. I had peeped at the top lines of it a dozen times this morning, to practice tone and pace and sentiment. I felt confident – triumphant!

There was a luncheon, quite delicious, with light wines and paler spritzers. There were people, in their hundreds, and the stage set out before us. I eyed the speaker's podium, the table with awards, the pomp and glory.

And it began! _Best Factual Article; Best Comical Cartoon; Best Reader's Letter_. The categories continued. Until! _Best Short Story:_ “Dr. John Watson!” The rain of applause! My friend beside me, clapping also!

I took my place upon the podium, and blinked out into the crowded hall. In my right hand, my folded speech, which I now opened and commenced to read:

_“Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the utmost pleasure that I accept this great and generous award....”_

I read on, to quiet approval from my audience. All was proceeding very nicely, until I reached the midway mark. To my vast horror, I then realised that parts had been papered over and rewritten; another's hand. 

Too late to pause, to hesitate! I must continue...

_“...But of course, none of this would be possible without the outstanding support and genius of my magnificent friend, the--”_ (and here I stumbled over my words) _“--truly super, clever and splendid consulting detective of 221B Baker Street, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, without whose guiding influence these stories would obviously be blithering drivel...”_

I stopped abruptly. The audience stirred in mild confusion. I stared down. I blinked. Holmes's handwriting, which went on for several paragraphs. I must continue with this farce, or else must improvise, or cut my speech short at its oddest, sharpest peak.

I improvised. I have no recollection of the words I may have said, if they bore any faint resemblance to my original care-wrought speech, but at any rate, I improvised. I may have babbled. I do recall that both my palms were clammy, and my eyes rolled in their sockets. I accepted my award at last, and bolted to my seat.

“What a marvellous speech,” said my friend, Sherlock Holmes. He had moved his chair away from me, I noticed, and he had one eye on the exit.

“Holmes,” I hissed, “you utter swine. You utter, utter, blazing swine.”

“You were ever so nice about me,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Thank you ever so much.”

“That's it,” I said. “When we get home, I am most certainly going to murder you.”

He gave a nervous giggle. “So many have said quite as much, and yet still I survive,” he confessed. “May my luck never run out.” He patted my hand. “I am very proud of you, you know, my dear fellow. You are very deserving of your... thing.” 

“That is as maybe,” I said, “but, but... you shouldn't alter a fellow's speeches, you know, it really isn't--”

“You are my Boswell,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My illuminating light.”

“Er,” I said. And then: “Oh. Well, thank you.” My cross resolve began to flounder.

He smiled, still tentative. He moved his chair a fraction closer.

“What a lovely day it's been,” he said. “You will treasure all these memories.” He settled in his chair, then, lit a cigarette, and beamed at me.

And perhaps it has been, and perhaps I shall. It is nice to be a Boswell, and even pleasanter to be an illuminating light. But one day, I am quite certain, I will murder him. Just not today, nor, probably, tomorrow.


End file.
